Obstacles
by Mighty Crouton
Summary: If possessed mages can't sleep, just what do they do with all that free time?


**NOTES:** I love Anders. I loved Anders in Awakening, and I loved Anders in Dragon Age 2. I adore him as a selfish, cynical, freedom loving adventurer and a selfless revolutionary. I just adore him, all facets, all minds, all characteristics, all aspects. I blame that poor sod for all of this. I understand if people hate him. In many ways, he can be pretty one dimensional. This is my play, my way of digging into all of those multiple dimensions. These are just short stories, anything that muse can conceive. Hawke will be male, female, mage, rogue, or warrior. S/he will love him, hate him, rebel, or adore. For the sake of continuity, all Hawkes will be default name + appearance, unless I specify I am writing a specific Hawke for a specific person.

Comedy, angst, drama, sex. Its all here.

I am willing to take suggestions, ideas, or prompts.

**OBSTACLES**

* * *

Hawke's bed was wearing down over time.

The sylvan wood frame had aged a fine pale amber, and for all its aesthetics also creaked when someone tossed from side to side in the wee hours of sleep. Not that Anders ever slept. He usually just kept himself occupied by writing long lists and agendas or reading old books. Anything to pass the time between sunset and sunrise. Its not that he was a nite owl or that he preferred catnaps to a full night's rest, but rather Anders was physically incapable of sleeping. The Circle, for all its educated pizzazz and collection of very old books, never mentioned the disconnection between possessed mages and the nature of sleep. From a purely sensible point of view, Anders' body should have worn down from exhaustion years ago from lack of shut-eye. But Justice, being a supremely dependable source of energy, was also a wonderful backup battery that negated the very need for rest. It was why Anders never had a bed of his own in Kirkwall. No need, really. Back at the clinic, he spent more time stitching torn jaws and pulling rotten molars that any time to relax would have been a perfect waste of time, even if he wanted to.

_For the greater good, for the better lot_, Justice would remind him. _What is sleep but for the sloth?_

Not sleeping was one of the greatest challenges involved in his deal with Justice. The first few weeks were all right enough... Anders was in no mood to sleep on the cold ground while he was running away from Grey Wardens and Templars. Hell, even the first few months were relatively easy. He used every hour of every day to network in Darktown, build a clinic, and gather herbs from Sundermount in order to pay off his debts. He was never bored. He simply didn't have time for boredom. Well, that was until the concept of Free Time entered the man's agenda. One can only write so many manifestos, save so many runaway apostates, and go on so many errands. At first he found himself doing little at night but sit. Read. Write. Repair old robes. Twiddle thumbs. Stare at the wall...

The danger of free time merely grew over the years, the holes in his schedule increasing to the point some nights were completely neglected. By the time Anders decided to move in with Hawke, almost every single night remained unplanned. Hawke convinced the healer to share her bed, hold her, read to her, tell her stories until she fell asleep. When she finally closed her eyes, he could do little but lie in bed. Sit. Read. Write. Twiddle thumbs. Stare at the wall...

The inability to sleep left Anders very, very, very bored in Hawke's bed.

Well, bored until the woman would wake up the following morning with a good mind to shag.

Anders watched her begrudgingly from his side and peeked out the bedroom window where he sat. It was still dark, though the sky waned in hues of cream and white off the horizon. Give her two more hours, four if she felt like sleeping in.

Anders was a patient man. But he was also tremendously bored, and had little to do with his time.

Swallowing some dry spit that formed a knot in his throat, he cautiously tested the waters by wrapping one arm around Hawke's waist as his mind worked out a foolhardy plan.

"... geh," the woman grunted, unconsciously pushing away from him and sliding closer to the edge of the mattress.

This would require learned skill, intelligent maneuvering, and even greater patience than he was capable of. Two years ago such thoughts would be unnecessary and even laughable. Whenever the two of them wanted a good romp or a heavy petting, the clothes and sheets would be off into a tussle followed by the snarling complaints of neighbors. Shortly after, Bodahn would kindly remind them that the walls were thin and his son still couldn't tell the difference between an attack and loud consensual mating (Perhaps suggesting Bodahn had to keep the boys ears plugged with sheep wool or preoccupy him with loud stories).

Anders and Hawke were renowned by High Town gossip due to their loud appreciation for one another. And what if they were loud? So what? Of course they would be. He was a possessed mage who hadn't had a decent sexual liaison in three years. Hawke was also an apostate, and lord knows her own sexual history was even thinner since she never had the pleasure of Circle life among the most bored and horniest people in all Ferelden. Now that she was the Champion, they could be as loud, as proud, and as indecent as they wanted to be in the privacy of her estate. Who cared if it carried out the windows and into the evening conversations of their neighbors?

That, however, was two years ago.

Now? Now neighbors' complaints were less frequent.

Anders bit his lower lip as he drew his hand slowly across the expanse of her waist, navigating taut, scarred flesh as they traced the curve of her torso. He followed this familiar scheme, pushing his fingers under her shirt as he schemed.

_What are you doing?_

_Oh for... Can't you leave me to this for just a moment?_

_Taking advantage of an unconscious woman? How unbecoming._

_Justice. I have been sleeping with her for two years. We have been in a consensual, sexual relationship for two years! By the maker's breath, please butt out. Its not as if she won't be stirred to wake, to give me her damn consent._

_Likely excuse._

_Are you listening to yourself? If she really sleeps through this, than I must be pretty bad at what I do. And we both know that is not a likely scenario.  
_

_You occupy your time pointlessly through desire of the flesh, especially that which is of no mind to suggest she is willing or unwilling. Use your hands and work for the greater good. This woman is a distraction._

Anders groaned.

_Oh do shut up and leave me alone._

_You realize that you are me and I am you? What is happening now is you are meeting a conflict of opinion. Perhaps this very exercise is a sign you must not carry through with your wanton needs and..._

_...Oh dear Maker, I have to stop punishing myself. I really need a break for a change._

_Breaks are for the weak._

_Listen. I am allowing myself a reward. Rewards are good. Rewards encourage me to continue saving mages, writing manifestos, pulling teeth for free, all of that. You can't deny me rewards that encourage good behavior, right?_

_Hmmm... Perhaps you have a point...  
_

Stuffing Justice (or the more disagreeing opinion of himself, since Justice is Anders and Anders is Justice and all is one like trees, roots, leaves, and other analogies that come to mind) far away in the back of his mind, Anders pulled his form closer to Hawke's as he returned to his mission. From a primal point of view, a man was in want of only three things. Food, sleep, and sex. And since Anders was sleep incapable, double went for sex. A lithe hand cupped the curve of her breast, soft nipple tucked between an index and middle finger. He buried his face in warm locks of thick black hair, lips nudging a smooth neck. He breathed deeply, memorizing the aromas that attached so closely to her skin. Anders could smell the mixed pattern of musky books, dried elfroot, and mabari hound that clung to the sheets. It was sensual. It was welco- Wait... Mabari Hound?

"Oh for crying outlou-"

Anders turned abruptly, finding himself comfortably trapped between an unconscious Champion of Kirkwall and an equally unconscious hound that had managed to crawl all two hundred pounds of toned muscle, heavy bone, and wet fur onto his side of the bed. The dog sprawled out widely, exposing his belly and legs dangling off the mattress edge as his form remained scrutinized by the crowded and irritated mage.

How the hound got wet in the middle of the night inside the damn estate? Nobody knows.

Slowly, the man closed his eyes. "Can you feel this?" He hissed at the dog. "Can you feel me rolling my eyes at you?"

The Ferelden hound lulled awake, one brown eye peeked at Anders. He responded by wagging his stubby tail, which caused his entire lower body to rock from side to side. It also caused the bed frame to creak like a boat on the sea.

"Come ON..."

With one great heave, Anders threw all his weight into his shoulders and pushed the dog off the bed. His joints popped and muscles strained from the blow's impact. Dog watched curiously before drawing one long tongue across the mage's face, leaving a line of drool from chin to brow. Finally, the hound lazily dropped to the ground with a great THUD, reluctantly picking himself up and sauntering out the door. Anders groaned, wiping off his face with the bed sheet.

_You waste your time with this, Anders. Do not give into sloth._

_OH LEAVE ME ALONE!_

He fell upon her again with renewed vigor, still gentle, still patient, still following the same careful steps. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other hand pushed back her hair, fingers tangled in the black threads. Anders nuzzled her softly, teeth gently nudged her neck as he explored her features with interest and intrigue. His breathe was hot and excited as she sighed, her body turned to follow his lead as he addressed her throat, her hair, her breasts, her jaw.

"Anders...?" Hawke muttered.

He answered by kissing her neck, following the length of her jawline to her ear.

"Anders...?" Hawke repeated.

"Yes?" He whispered, biting her earlobe.

"... I have a headache," Hawke grumbled, not bothering to push the mage off of her but not giving in at the same time. "Not right now. Maybe in another hour?"

Anders stilled himself, his head rattling. First Justice... then that damned dog.. and now.. a headache?

He paused, brows furrowed and lips pursed.

In the darkness, a light blue emitted from his hands. The luminescence flickering off the definitions of his long fingers and the veins under his skin. He gently traced her temples to the crown of her head, combing his fingers through her hair and smiling down at her from the darkness.

"Not anymore you don't!"

Hawke sighed with defeat, drawing her body against his, "You just don't give up, do you?"

"Sweetheart. You have no idea."

* * *

This story was inspired by two separate fanarts. I've all but lost them, credit where credit is due.

Poor Anders just wants some sugar.


End file.
